Father and Son
by Cruelty Cardiff
Summary: Not what you're thinking. Less-than-perfect title, I know, but it works. It's a dream of Harry's that I created, and I think it's kind of sweet ... r&r.


Disclaimer: This is fanfiction.net. I highly doubt anyone will get sued. 

A dream of Harry's that I created. (The true beauty of writing is the mind control.) I would say this happens in a future year, but we'll never know that. You won't, at least. 

–––––––– 

Help me, please help me! 

No answer. 

Excuse me! I'm – I'm lost, please! Is anyone here? 

Silence. The place was black, and any walls were imperceptible, but they existed, he could tell. He could feel them closed around him, containing him. 

The boy didn't continue. He just kept his eyes wide open, his hand by his side, so he could reach his wand if needed. 

He didn't know if he had spoken, anyway. He couldn't tell. His mind was clouded and blank, and was giving him no helpful directions except 'Run,' and for some reason he didn't want to. He felt drawn to this dark room, and he didn't know why. At least, not until a moment after. 

A figure appeared before him, but he didn't notice it until it called to him; the figure was very small and only reached his waist. 

'Harry,' the small thing said, in an even smaller voice. The voice was frightened and squeaky, like a mouse would sound like were he scared, or able to talk. 

Harry looked down. It was another boy, and he looked to be around five. He was wearing overlarge, shabby pants and a threadbare shirt that looked to have once been white. His hair was black and shorter on one side, as if he had been given a particularly nasty haircut. His eyes gleamed emerald in the dark of the space, and they were shrouded behind thick, round glasses that were too big for him. The boy looked back at Harry intently, and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. 

'Harry,' the little boy said again. His voice dropped to a whisper. 

Harry had no idea what to say to this tiny boy. He didn't recognise him, so all he could think of to ask was, 'How do you know my name?' He thought he must have said that out loud to the boy, but it didn't feel like he had. 

'You don't remember me?' the small boy squeaked. 'I know you,' he continued, 'because I can tell who you are.' 

'Then who am I?' Harry asked. He knew perfectly well who he was, but he didn't trust this boy, even if he did appear very harmless. He knew from dreams that harmless-looking people can easily be very dangerous. Dream? he thought. Is this a dream? I can't remember ... 

The boy grinned, as if very proud of something. 'You're me,' he said. 

Harry blinked surprisedly. 'Sorry, what?' 

The little boy laughed the sweet, giggly laugh of a young child. 'I said you're me, silly! You're dreaming, and you dreamed up me! I mean, you! And I dreamed up you! I mean – me!' 

Harry felt his realisation of this fact snap into focus immediately. Yes, this small boy was him at five, he remembered now, as if he had never forgotten. 

He looked at his younger self, and as he took in his old appearance again, he felt a pang of hurt in his heart. This little Harry looked so shy, so helpless, and so unloved ... which, Harry reminded himself, he was. Unloved by the world. 

Before he realised it, he had knelt down and enveloped Little Harry in a bear hug. He couldn't remember ever hugging anyone this way; it was fatherly, it was caring, and it was full of love. He had never had anyone to hug like this. For a moment, Harry had a vision of himself in the future, with a small lot of his own kids, maybe three or four; even seven like the Weasleys. He didn't care how many, what they looked like or how many tantrums they threw. He understood at once the love of a father. 

Little Harry curled up against him, and they stayed that way for several moments, mutually taking comfort from the hug. Then Big Harry stood up; he could feel, rather than see, the room growing fainter, and Little Harry very slowly vanishing. 

'I think I'm waking up now,' Big Harry said. 'Don't forget you're loved by someone.' 

And then he opened his eyes. 

When they awoke, neither Harry remembered the dream. 

–––––––– 

OK. Now, the 'father and son' thing is kind of a metaphor, I think. I'm very proud I managed to write something without inserting some line hinting at a romance. Right, then. Review. Now! 


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